


Where the Lost Boys Meet

by craple



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeref’s first thought is that whoa, how can a guy be so pretty? Is he an angel too? His second thought is that he seriously needs to keep his boner in check. Crackfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Lost Boys Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... This is gonna be fun :D Uhm, yeah, slash time? I'll make sure not to end this story so abrupt with the simple action of a kiss alone, I'm not a tease x)

For once, the wine tastes unusually bitter as he swallows the entire glass in one shot. It leaves this weird burning sensation in his mouth; warm sparks on the tip of his tongue, slithering down the length of his throat like hungry snakes.

His fourth glass, Zeref counts, has him cornered against the edge of unconsciousness. All senses of time and place have left him completely, even the sense to _think_ that he is alone on a Saturday night, in a bloody bar somewhere across the town, too bloody _drunk_ on seventh cloud to notice the odd looks pointed in his direction by many in the room. It is too small, too cramped it suffocates him. But then again it’s probably the wine giving his liver a hard time on keeping up with his needs.

On the sixth glass, the world revolves around him like all those planets around the sun. Or maybe croaking ravens around a dead corpse like in those horror movies Gerard forced him to watch. Like the stars revolving around the universe too, if they can move. Can they? He thinks it’s the satellite or whatever around a planet or... whatever. Then oh, they twinkle at nights sometimes, so maybe they _do_ revolve around the universe after all. Zeref is thinking about flying pigs and mad cow diseases by the time he reaches his twelfth glass, blessed him and his alcohol tolerance.

The world no longer revolves around him-because it fucking _spins_ like lollipop-on his sixteenth glass. Not just lollipop, he swears to gods almighty above that he just, indeed, sees a unicorn passing by, its white horn nudging at the small of his back as it disappears through the back door. Zeref gives it a lazy lop-sided smile that makes the unicorn pause, its eyebrow—does a unicorn even _have_ eyebrows?—rose in silent question. When Zeref simply smiles, and smiles, and smiles, the unicorn decides that the human is completely drunk. Drunk human means not worth giving attention. Nope, not at all.

An angel descends upon him far from heaven on his twentieth glass. Zeref knows she is an angel because whoa, her hair is like, so white and glossy and soft and all pretty like a really fury cat, and she has this soft concerned face and really, _really_ beautiful eyes.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink anymore-“the angel, who is actually the bartender who is one of Zeref’s classmates from his Cognitive Psychology class, though he’s too drunk to remember her, says. He doesn’t even listen, just stares, smiles, and smiles, and says;

“You’re so pretty. Are you an angel? Angels are always pretty, so you must be.”

She goes quiet at that. Then-

“Drinks are on the house for you, sweetheart!” exclaims angel, a big pretty smile on her face that makes the light look dim. Zeref cheers because his head is a little bit wobbly, the room swings like his father’s pendulum clock, also because he has this bubbly feeling in his chest? Like he can burst at any time if he does not let it go or something, like a time bomb! The raven haired grins and pours himself another glass.

It is fifteen minutes to midnight when he checks at the clock again. Some people are leaving already, but there are a few others who decide to stay. Magnolia UNI’s soccer team is playing against Capital UNI tonight. While it is not that big of a deal, people all across the town always love to watch the play and placing bets for the team simply because they are just _that_ good. Has he been sober, Zeref might also join in the bet. A few extra cash is not necessarily a bad thing right now, considering he’s nearly broke from all the alcohol.

But he’s not so. Another bottle won’t hurt, much.

He’s pouring the content of the fresh new bottle with shaking hands and blurry vision and it’s a wonder he hasn’t dropped the-what, tenth bottle?-yet when a guy sits down on the stool next to him. Ah-ah, that’s rude. Zeref’s lips purse into a thin line, then into a childish pout because fuck; he’s so drunk he can’t even maintain a serious straight-ass expression at the moment. He wants to say something to the guy, something like _‘dude you’re being rude, shoulda at least ask if the seat is taken’_ but the guy turns around a bit to look at him and oh.

He doesn’t exactly pay close attention to the guy’s face but oh. _Oh_.

Zeref’s first thought is that whoa, can a guy be so pretty? Is he an angel too? He looks like he is, with that adorable somehow sexy bedroom hair that sticks into all sorts of directions? And he’s sort of wants to card his fingers through the locks just to see how soft it actually is? Which would also be sort of awkward because this is a guy he’s never met before, and he’s probably taken anyway with that smouldering gorgeous green eyes and the tattoo and he _totally_ works out a lot and he wants to like, _touch_ him or something?

Pink is obviously a colour that is meant for girls but this time, Zeref thinks that yeah, pink is cool on guys too. Especially this guy who is like, so hot, and he’s looking at Zeref in that _gosh_ so _fucking adorable_ way but it’s also really, _really_ sexy and it makes Zeref squirm on his seat because, uhm, whoa. His fingers twitch on his lap, on the table, tapping against the counter repeatedly. Obviously they want to reach out, want to feel whether they are thick or thin, soft or tangled, curious. The guy cocks his head to the side— _fuck;_ he _did not_ just think about _cock_ —and grins. Cheshire-cat-like which is strangely, in a good kind of strange, again, _sexy_.

“Hey, dude, are you alright? How many drinks have you had, man?” he asks; his voice deep, not rough like he expects it to be, but really low and smoky and Jesus H. Christ, he’s going to use a lot of _sexy_ if this guy doesn’t stop staring at him like that. Maybe even without the _‘Y’_.

Suddenly all he can think of is that he wants to kiss this guy, whoever he is. Try to card his fingers through his hair in the process if he has the will power. Also tracing the tattooed skin on his chest, preferably with his tongue because the guy smells of something natural like pine, and a bit salty and bitter like wine and smoke. Yeah maybe he does all that, drinking and smoking and fucking.

“You look like you’ve been rammed over the table, man. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Yep. Especially the fucking part, he _totally_ does that.

“Can I kiss you?”

And oh no, he doesn’t say that, nope. His lips are zipped so tight he can’t speak. He also _does not_ drool over the guy’s appearance of black tight v-neck shirt beneath crimson-red sleeveless jacket, or how his arse _does_ look a bit _too nice_ in those tight, _Jesus fucking Christ how tight are those jeans really_ , tight jeans.

Uhm, okay, that’s just weird. Images of bending over this counter in the middle of a bar full of people cheering over MU’s soccer team without any clothes on, _plus_ a very _vivid_ imagination of this guy across his back _did not_ just pop in his mind. Nor did the images of _him_ bending the guy over because it is totally not appropriate.

The guy laughs— _he fucking laughs_ —and the voice is clear, rumbling throughout his body, crawling against his skin. Heat coils in the pit of his stomach before seeping all across his body. Splotches of crimson stain the pale skin of his chest, up to his face, and he’s grinning like an idiot dreamily up at this man because _fuck_. He needs to stop using the _‘fuck’_ word now.

Angel Two calls out to Angel One, the pretty one with white hair that Zeref wants to kiss too.

“Mira, what the hell did you give this guy?” he asks breathily, still gasping for air after his sudden outburst of hysterical laughter. Not that Zeref minds though. He looks prettier, his voice richer when he laughs. Zeref wants to make him laugh again.

“Just some cheap wines,” Mira, aka Angel One, replies with a shake of her head. She pauses, taps a finger to her lips in a contemplating motion. “Although he’s been here, drinking non-stop since eight...”

“Christ,” Angel One breathes out. The word sounds strangled, amused but also _not_ amused at the same time if it’s possible. “Let’s get you out of here man. You need to sober up.”

Zeref grins a bit crookedly-not trying to be seductive or anything-at that. From the sudden hitch of the guy’s breath, Zeref can tell that, while the suggestion is completely innocent in itself; or as far as _innocent_ goes between two guys, one horny while the other is absolutely _gorgeous_ , his sudden crush on this stranger is not exactly one-sided.

Then again, it’s probably the alcohol clouding on him (woo, look at those snails flying in the air, is that Narnia under Angel One’s skirt) so Zeref tries not to look hopeful. Much.

He bites at the dry skin, sweeps his tongue over his lower lip which, surprise, surprise, causes the guy to look at the motion _more_ interested than what is appropriate.

“Does that mean I get to kiss you?” Zeref drawls, simply because he has to.

Also because the guy is hot, and that he has this lips that are so thin but really, really red? He wants to see how it will look if he kisses them, licks and sucks until they’re redder than the most ripe of apples and swollen wet.

 The guy laughs again, smirks a bit with the barest hint of shyness and fascination. Zeref parts his lips in a silent moan at the pleasant shiver ripples down his spine. The guy swallows before nodding, jerky little motions that say yeah, of course, they can _totally_ kiss.

“Only when you’re sober enough to think though,” he adds, unsure of what to say any other than that. When he stands up suddenly from the stool, Zeref waits until the guy finally extends his hand to help him up. Drunk and horny as he is, a small part of his mind still works down there, telling him things like _‘if you try to get up without any help, you’ll probably trip over and fall and that’ll be really embarrassing and he probably won’t kiss you anymore’_ or _‘okay look at his hands, not his mouth, no, not down there you horny fool, don’t look down his pants, at least not yet anyway’_ and something like _‘keep your boner in check man you’re in public for Christ’s sake’_.

When the guy wraps an arm around Zeref’s waist while the other goes to his shoulders, keeping him in place, Zeref buries his face in the crook of the guy’s neck almost immediately. He smells the scent of his cologne, like pine and trees and reminding him of home, of Ireland and green fields and cathedrals and cigarettes, also of sex. He nuzzles his nose into his hair, licks at the spot behind his ear which causes the guy shudder. “What’s your name, pretty?” Zeref asks, because he has to, because he needs a name to whisper against his pillow later if tonight doesn’t work.

It takes a while for the guy to answer, probably from amusement or nervousness, he’s not sure. There is also that slight hesitation flickers on his face, but he answers anyway.

“Natsu. Natsu Dragneel.”

Zeref nods as he silently burns the name into his memories, yet careful still as to not carve it to his heart.


End file.
